


Too Good and Fair for Death

by Meridians_of_Madness



Series: The Deaths of Princes [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Halberd, Impalement, M/M, Murder, Necrophilia (implied), Poisoning, Sexual Murder, Stabbing, Strangulation, Vaginal Fingering, universe hopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23340736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Meridians_of_Madness
Summary: Aziraphale stumbles into an alternate universe where the Arrangement involves competitive murder to cover up their adoration for each other.  Chapters Two and Three ponder what said universe must be like.-Written and then expanded upon for the kink meme prompthere
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Deaths of Princes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847338
Comments: 16
Kudos: 101





	1. No Gambling in Heaven, No Necrophilia on the Playing Field

This universe's Crowley sounded surprised when Aziraphale called him, but he was calm, which calmed Aziraphale in turn.

“Of course, angel. Meet you at Paley's, twenty minutes.”

He hung up, and Aziraphale pulled himself together so he could lock up the shop properly and make the brisk walk to the the club four blocks over, one of Crowley's favorite meeting places, though certainly not one of his.

As in his world, Paley's was busy even at that late hour, though the mob had shifted from daytrippers and children with false IDs to a harder-drinking crowd. The dark room pulsed with a heavy bass beat that would give him a headache if he were there for very long, and anxiously, Aziraphale lurked the edges of the club, looking for Crowley.

He felt the tingle of infernal presence behind him, and he was just starting to turn in relief when a narrow cord looped over his head and pulled perfect and perfectly tight against his throat.

“Didn't give me much time to prepare,” murmured Crowley, right next to his ear. The prickle of pleasure from Crowley's warm breath was at terrible odds with the tightening cord around his throat, digging in so hard that Aziraphale's gasp for breath couldn't even fill his lungs.

“I mean, what a bad little angel you are, calling me up like I was your own personal rentboy. Just assumed that I'd be available and willing, didn't you? Just _knew_ I'd be up to play,” Crowley continued, his voice so soft and loving that Aziraphale hesitated, even in his panic, to kick back and break Crowley's knee.

“You knew I'd come, though,” Crowley's voice was silky even as the cord around Aziraphale's neck tightened, _tightened_ –

“Of _course_ you did, precious, and here I am, but without your favorite knives, no poison save my own to my name, and I know you'd rather keep _that_ for something more private. Look at me, trying to do you up with just my headphone cords. You were right, you know, about the airpods. Bloody useless garbage, really. I was so glad I still had these when you called and I had to go dashing about my place looking for something that would please...”

What in the name of God was Crowley talking about? Please who? Why was Crowley using _that voice?_

The questions whirled around his head, faster and faster and interrupted by great whorls of flashing light as his heart beat first too hard and then too slowly, deprived of oxygen, and his face felt swollen and hot, and God above, his hands clawing at his throat were so heavy... he could barely _lift_ them...

“There we are, my angel,” said Crowley as Aziraphale's vision went finally dark. “I'll just take you to the back to have a bit of fun with you, and then I'll see to a proper burial. I promise, nothing cheap, not for you, darling...”

_Oh, that's rather good of him,_ Aziraphale thought haplessly, and then it all went dark.

–

Aziraphale opened his eyes just as a heavy hand slapped him on the shoulder, sending him stumbling forward a few paces. The pure white of his surroundings and the light fresh scent of what lemon cleaner wished it could be told him he was in Heaven, and the heart he technically didn't have any more thudded against his ribs.

Instead of shoving him again, though, the Archangel Gabriel was only shaking his head, pursing his lips with disappointment.

Aziraphale blinked. He was used to Gabriel's disappointment. He had once counted some forty-eight different varieties (most common: mild and cranky, most tiring: frustrated and confused, most rare: upset but oddly chipper), but this was a new one. This one looked... almost proud.

“Well, champ, had to close out sometime. It was a helluva streak, though, and we're all really proud you kept it up.”

“Ah, well. um... indeed?” asked Aziraphale hopefully.

“I'm not,” declared Michael in tones of great irritation. That was at least more familiar, until she continued, “Could you not have kept on for just one more round? You lost me half my quarterly wages, principality.”

“ _I_ knew you couldn't do it,” Uriel said with satisfaction, and then as if hearing how that sounded, gave an apologetic little shrug. “It's been your longest streak since the Renaissance. No one should expect you to keep it up for longer, not when Crowley only gets more motivated and more dramatic the longer you win.”

Win?

Michael growled, handing over her wages, and Uriel threw her arm over Michael's shoulders.

“Come on, be a good loser, and I'll take you out tonight...”

“On _my_ wages, mind you...” grumbled Michael, and they left together, leaving Aziraphale alone with Gabriel.

Aziraphale was still trying to put all the pieces together when Gabriel, adjusting a scoreboard that he'd summoned up with a wave, made a thoughtful noise.

“Hmm, he went with a garrote this time? Must have been working fast. Did he get the drop on you, Aziraphale?”

“Oh, er, yes, yes he did. Very wily old serpent,” Aziraphale managed, but Gabriel was already nodding.

“Hey, don't have to tell me twice,” he said. “I keep the leaderboard.”

Aziraphale gazed at the board with his mouth open as Gabriel gave Round 2,494 to Crowley. The pictures at the far left edge were of himself and Crowley, a woodcut of Crowley looking particularly devilish from the 1400s and a photo of himself, overexposed and smiling rather too much.

With a sense of growing horror, he scanned through the rounds, marked neatly by the year, the winner, and the... the method of discorporation.

_Oh... oh I rather did like the halberd back in the seventeenth century. I must have liked it_ so much, he thought faintly.

Gabriel dismissed the scoreboard with a clap of his hands and turned to Aziraphale with the friendliest smile Aziraphale had ever seen. Aziraphale suddenly wanted very badly for him to go back to looking disappointed (maybe 'grumpy and a little bored,' that was a good one).

“Well, some of the junior accounting agents will be pleased. They were 5 to 1 in the betting pool for strangulation next. Though of course, there's no gambling in Heaven, right?”

Gabriel tapped the side of his nose, and Aziraphale managed a garbled laugh. Of course there was no gambling in Heaven. No angels sweating through their clothes either, because there was, thankfully, no sweat in Heaven, and no angels who were currently so stressed they could have discorporated without a body to discorporate.

“Well, I'll send you back for Round 2,495, and, ah, Aziraphale?”

“Yes, Gabriel?”

“Just as a special favor to me, maybe, ah... little bit slicey-dicey next time?”

Gabriel mimed a stabbing motion, and Aziraphale, who was very proud of himself for not screaming out of sheer confusion, nodded and made his way back to the portal to Earth.


	2. Unfair and Imprecise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 1600s, when Aziraphale rather did like his halberd.

The problem was the seventeenth century, Crowley decided.

The problem was that gunpowder and light artillery had finally made their appearance, but no one was using them exclusively yet because a well-armed, well-trained cavalry was still the final word in most international arguments.

The problem was that at some point, every battle turned into this, a vicious scrum on a field littered with dying men and screaming horses, and only the most savage left to fight it out for winner.

The problem was, Crowley thought helplessly, that the angel looked so damned good swinging a halberd.

They were already a little passe, but Aziraphale had held on to his straight through the 1500s, replacing the haft when it was too begrimed with filth and blood to stand, replacing the head at his favorite armorer in Gascogne if he could make the trip.

“I rather thought you were more for the swords,” Crowley had asked one night in Florence, pouring himself a measure of wine as Aziraphale choked through the late stages of cyanide poisoning.

“I like this better,” Aziraphale managed. “More... _fun.”_

Crowley picked up the halberd that Aziraphale had rested against the wall by the bed, spinning it between his hands. It was a monstrous thing, too heavy by far for how easily Aziraphale carried it.

“More fun,” he echoed. “Strange angel.”

Aziraphale choked, and Crowley thought it was the end until he realized that Aziraphale was only laughing through the pulmonary edema.

“Not... not as strange... as you carrying it.”

Crowley grinned, laying the halberd aside.

“I know, arms like noodles and a physique to match. Don't worry, precious. I'll stash it in the usual place for you.”

Aziraphale gasped something that might have been a thank you, but then his heart seized and Crowley lay down next to him, cuddling him shamelessly as he passed. He kissed the taste of almonds off Aziraphale's mouth, and if he stayed a little too long with the corpse, well, that was between him and the halberd.

The halberd's time was nearing its end, but you wouldn't know it by Aziraphale on the field, swinging it with a grace that was just short of balletic and a vicious strength that was just barely holy. By this point in the battle, no one was going to notice if the angel forgot himself a little, if he was moving a little too fast for a human, swinging his polearm in mathematically perfect and gleaming arcs to bury them in someone's shoulder and split them down to the navel.

Entranced, Crowley watched Aziraphale from the trees until it occurred to him that he was seeing a lot more clearly than he had even a short while ago. As a man staggered past him into the forest minus a good chunk of thigh that he had had earlier that day, Crowley remembered that battles moved, sprawled, and would, yes, sometimes deliver you unto an angel.

Just as Crowley was coming to this realization, Aziraphale looked up, tilting his head slightly like a hound wondering if he was scenting right. Then their eyes met. There was still a good forty yards and more than a score of fighting dying men between them.

It didn't matter.

Aziraphale grinned, yanked the blade of his halberd out of the last sorry sod he had buried it in, and Crowley's heart hit doubletime as Aziraphale pointed the weapon at him.

Crowley spun on his heel, and started to run, crashing through the forest, leaving the sounds of battle far behind him.

 _I could still lose him,_ Crowley thought. _Hell, he's been fighting all day, I could lay a trap, and he'd probably fall right in like a good lad..._

That line of thought was cut off when there was a crash of breaking tree limbs above him, and he halted just in time to avoid rushing face-first into a swinging blade.

“ _Cheater_ ,” panted Crowley as Aziraphale reversed the blade and he had to dodge a cut from below that was far faster than gravity should allow.

“Certainly not,” huffed Aziraphale, matching Crowley's pace as he backed away. “I'm the nice one, or don't you remember? I do not cheat.”

“God made physics for a reason, angel.“

“And She made you, and She made me. I remember.”

A second slash sent Crowley dodging to the side. Aziraphale couldn't take too many of those. Even he had to account for the weight of his weapon; a moment too long to recover, and Crowley could be sprinting through the woods again.

“Oh come now,” Aziraphale said in a voice that he probably considered reasonable. “I have you fair and square.”

“Not yet, you don't,” said Crowley edging back towards the deeper woods. “I might do anything. Might try to fly like you did, cheater. Might go big fuck-off snake, and then see where your precious little toy leaves you.”

“But you won't, will you?” said Aziraphale, his tone just short of cajoling. “No, not after the fun we had in Cologne. But first you're going to dance, and you are going to spit, and you are going to pretend _oh no, Aziraphale, I don't want it, I don't_ like _it...”_

Crowley felt a dull blush crawl up on his cheeks, and no, eyes on the angel, not on the polearm, eyes _always_ on the angel. Aziraphale had to move before the halberd could, and that split second was all he had. Sometimes, it was enough.

“Come here,” the angel said, his voice soft as he tracked Crowley between patches of sunset light. “Come here, and take it like a man-shaped being of cosmic power.”

“Shan't,” said Crowley, and he rocked forward on his feet, covering the ground between them faster than the blink of an eye. He moved quick enough that he was inside the range of the blade, and before Aziraphale could jaw him with the haft, one quick foot hooked around Aziraphale's ankle and yanked it out from him as Crowley danced back with a wild laugh.

 _Fair and square,_ that _for your fair and square, angel,_ and he was on his feet and running, or at least he was before a burning cold pain speared into his right side, ice until it turned to fire, and with a strangled cry, he looked down to see the short curved blade that jutted from the back of the halberd's head buried neatly between his ribs. The hook was made to pull horsemen from their mounts, and Aziraphale could send it through armor.

Crowley's eyes followed the haft back to Aziraphale, who held the very end with one hand, still sitting on the grass, smiling like he'd won something.

“Cheater,” Crowley said again.

“It is not my fault that you forget how versatile a halberd can be. Here, let me show you another fun trick.”

Crowley screamed as Aziraphale jerked his end of the halberd down, changing the angle of the hook but not pulling it clear. The pain was excruciating, and that was before Aziraphale started to drag him backwards.

 _He's fucking hooked my fucking rib,_ Crowley thought helplessly, or as much as he could think when his body was screaming and the pain was making his knees buckle.  
Step by step, Aziraphale dragged him down to the ground in front of him, and by the time that he got there, Crowley was gasping for breath and ready to fall. One more jerk got the halberd clear and dropped Crowley straight into Aziraphale's lap, into the angel's comforting embrace, sweet despite the breastplate. Crowley summoned all his strength to give the breastplate a scornful hollow knock.

“Look at you. Halberd and plate, what d'you think this is, the damned 1400s?”

“I'm comfortable,” said Aziraphale, refusing to be baited. “I'm not the one who showed up on a battlefield without armor or a weapon.”

Crowley tried to shrug, but the wound in his side screamed when he moved the torn muscles at all. He flopped back into Aziraphale's arms instead, letting the angel's warmth seep into his suddenly very cold body, letting the angel stroke his hair out of his face.

“And you never wear a helmet either,” muttered Crowley. “I know you, you vain old thing.”

Aziraphale chuckled.

“Do you remember when they thought it was a shame to cover their heads in battle, that the enemy must see them to fear them?”

“I do, and then they thought _hey, head wounds. Not a lot of getting up from that._ And then helmets. You could take a lesson, angel.”

His words were coming slower, and it was harder to put them together. He was cold, and when he coughed, he made a disgusted face.

“You pierced a lung, I'm drowning on dry land.”

“Oh, are you? I had no idea...”

Crowley coughed again, harder, a disgusting taste in his mouth even as everything else was beginning to go soft around the edges. He recognized those soft edges very well, and they told him better than Aziraphale's smugness or his own pain that he had lost.

“Damn it, angel -”

“Have the humans come up with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation yet?”

“Fucked if I know, probably not?” Crowley gagged on the last word, his body twitching as something inside gave up. Then he groaned in pain as Aziraphale laid him on his back on the ground.

Oh, but the sun had gone in quickly, Crowley thought in a daze. It felt like day, but the sky was dimming and the stars were out. Then Aziraphale came to rest by his side and lean over him, blotting sun and moon and stars, and who cared anyway, because he had an angel. He would have reached out to Aziraphale, touch those blood-splattered curls, press a finger between those lips, but he was so cold, his body so heavy.

“If I gave you my breath, would you come back to life?” asked Aziraphale. “Would you stand and hold me, would you kiss me and hit me?”

“Worth a try, anyway,” Crowley managed, and then Aziraphale's mouth came down over his, so hot that for a moment Crowley thought that it really _would_ bring him back to life. He would get up and the game would start again, only maybe this time the angel would lay aside the polearm and he could forget the poison, and they could sit under the stars that hung above them, kisses without blood, skin without tears.

Then, nope, it was just a silly kiss, lips pressed to his, and no magic in it at all as his organs gave in. His blood pumped away onto the grass and onto Aziraphale's chest, and the cold swallowed him, and he was gone.


	3. Extravagant and Unnecessary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley indulges in the Victorian era's mania for mourning.

When he had to bribe some policemen to close down the street, Crowley admitted that he might have gone overboard.

Well, honestly. It wasn't _his_ fault that the angel had so few friends that he'd had to hire a company of mourners, and he could hardly be blamed for the armloads of gorgeous dark roses that were coming out of the greenhouses this year. And of course once he had the mourners and the flowers, he couldn't have his dear Mr Fell brought to his final rest in an ox-cart, could he? No, only the finest hearse and four would do, the horses a matched quartet of shining black without a spot of white, and the hearse itself decked out in crisp swags of black bombazine.

All of this was waiting for the rainy morning, when Mr Fell would be interred at Highgate. Crowley still wondered if he should have sprung for a freestanding mausoleum, something in gleaming marble with cherubs above the door, but the catacombs rung a bell in his heart he couldn't bear to let go. With its arched ceiling and long deep hall, it reminded him of Rome, and he was, very privately, quite a sentimental thing.

The coffin was a bit of a rush job, but it was black and trimmed with gilt paint, the inside lined with royal blue velvet that looked ever so fine next to Aziraphale's pale skin. It put a little color in his cheeks even when he was dead; really, it was impressive what good color-theory could do.

That was all for the morning, however, and tonight, Crowley was alone in the house he had purchased for just this occasion. Aziraphale's coffin was set up on a low table in the front parlor, and with a snap of his fingers, he lit the place up with a dozen candles against the winter chill. He left the hearth cold and the mirror above it draped with velvet for that properly funereal air, and he was only a little sorry that he couldn't see himself decked out in in a gown of rustling black crepe with just a bit of black piping at the hems for texture. Jet buttons gleamed dully at his wrists and down his front, and from his ears hung the very darkest of pigeon's blood rubies, absolutely to die for, and he snickered a little at that before regaining his composure.

 _My poor husband,_ he thought, standing before the coffin, _The poor old dear, taken from us so quickly by that tragic dose of strychnine. Gone before his time, and he was so very kind to me on occasion..._

Crowley dabbed a little more genuinely at his eyes, imagining what a good life they might have had, a whirlwind courtship in London, honeymoon on the continent, summers in the country and winters in town...

 _I wonder why I killed him_ Crowley thought with just a little smirk. _Poor old Alphonse doesn't strike me as one for the gambling tables, and he would never raise his hand to a lady...I'll bet it was for unnatural practices in the marriage bed, and good woman, I, I could_ never _countenance such beastly things._

The Widow Fell might never have been able to bear her husband's attentions, but the Demon Crowley could bear them very well, and his breath came a little quicker, his imagination taking one of those forks where he was wholly himself and at the same time also that goodly mortal woman, pushed to her limits by her husband's dark desires.

Crowley took a step closer to the coffin, and with a gesture he sent the nails holding the lid in place rattling to the floor.

_It's winter, he ought not be in terrible shape, and perhaps the widow only wants one last look at her husband's face..._

Still he hesitated with his hand on the lid, taking a dramatic and vivid pleasure at the picture he must make, spine perfectly straight, his long pale hand on dark coffin, his face stern but composed.

 _I ought to do this again, but with the mirror uncovered,_ he thought, but before he could do so, there was the shiver of a holy miracle, first one and then another.

He turned with just in time to see Aziraphale materialize behind him, a newspaper under his arm, a irritable look on his face, and dressed all in black.

“Angel,” said Crowley with surprise. “I didn't expect to see you back so soon.”

“I normally wouldn't be,” said Aziraphale.”Sareniel dropped me in Plymouth, and I intended to take the scenic sea route to London until I picked up a paper.”

He held up the paper in question and pointed to, all right, a rather large and ornate obituary for the late lamented Alphonse Zebulon Fell, noted book dealer of London and man of letters.

“Only the best for my angel,” said Crowley with an insolent grin, and Aziraphale glared at him, snapping the paper closed and tossing it onto a nearby ottoman.

“I thought I should get back before you spent my estate on this ridiculous trend for overwrought grief,” he said, eyeing Crowley up and down. “Tell me, did I pay for that dress?”

Crowley pouted.

“It wouldn't be right, your widow going out in rags, as if you meant nothing to her.”

“I did not have a widow when I died,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Nor did I have a first or middle name. Honestly, Crowley, _Alphonse?”_

“I liked it,” Crowley said. “And I have to say, angel, I like the black, too. It suits you.”

“Well, it would hardly be appropriate to wear my regular clothes for a funeral, especially a funeral as grand as the one you have prepared.”

“So you're not angry?” Crowley asked hopefully, and then he fell back against the coffin as Aziraphale crossed the remaining space between them far faster than a human could have, large hand splayed over Crowley's meager chest.

“I wouldn't say angry,” Aziraphale said calmly, “only concerned, perhaps, to find a woman my dear departed brother never told me about spending his money and acting the mourning widow...”

“Oh, don't tell me you're going with the long-lost brother thing again?” complained Crowley. “You know you only get away with that because humans have little baby mayfly memories, and-”

He gasped as he was spun around and bent over over the coffin, Aziraphale's hand shifted to the back of his neck. He tried to straighten up, and realized with a thrill that, no, that was not happening. If the picture of himself as the grieving widow was a turn-on, it was nothing compared to this, being bent over his husband's bier by a stern man dressed all in black.

“As I said, what am I meant to think when I return to London after many years abroad to find a woman I have never met reigning over my brother's funeral?”

“That... your brother was a very lucky man?”

“More likely that you are an adventuress of the worst kind, sweeping in to grab what you can from a good man's estates before haring off on your wicked way again. Or at least, that was the plan, until your target's brother came home too soon and caught you in the act.”

Crowley abruptly dropped every thought he had about being the good Widow Fell, because, fuck, the angel was so blessed good at this sometimes, so _fun._

“I see,” said Crowley, spreading his hands flat on the coffin lid to better maintain his balance. “And... what exactly would you do with such an adventuress, hm?”

“Turn her over to the authorities immediately, of course.”

Crowley groaned as Aziraphale's hand on the back of his neck loosened, and he started to straighten up.

“Oh, angel that's no- ah!”

He drew his breath in sharply as Aziraphale pushed him back down, harder this time, and Crowley ended up with his cheek to the sleek wood, his nose filled with the scent of fresh paint and Aziraphale's cologne, something sharp and green, not at all his usual.

“Or perhaps I'm not such a very good man, and I would consider letting you off. If I thought you were sufficiently sorry.”

“I am, I am,” Crowley said with not a hint of repentance in his voice. “I'm _ever_ so sorry...”

“Really, is that all the better you can do? I should just let them lock you up,” said Aziraphale with amusement. “Put you in the ground, throw away the key. Let you sit in the dark and rot away.”

He had come close enough that Crowley could arch his rear- well, the bustle of his dress, anyway- against Aziraphale's thigh, pressing back shamelessly.

“You would miss me. You would miss me so very much.”

“I would,” Aziraphale said, and his free hand came down to curl under Crowley's bent body, thick fingers roving over Crowley's belly before rising to squeeze his breasts. Crowley whimpered at his carelessly possessive touch. It couldn't last too long, it never could, but blessed if he wouldn't enjoy it while he had it.

“Don't let them lock me away,” Crowley said, cajoling. “Don't let them put me in the dark, please...”

“Mm. I do not find myself moved. Perhaps you should be a little more convincing.”

“I might be if you let me up?”

Wordlessly, Aziraphale let go of the back of his neck, and Crowley turned around, mind spinning giddily through all the ways he could _convince_ the angel. He started to drop to his knees -nothing like the old favorites- but Aziraphale shook his head.

“No. Lift your skirts for me.”

“Oh, sir,” Crowley breathed. “You can't, I'm a good woman, you mustn't...”

Crowley went still when Aziraphale reached up to cup his hand first against Crowley's cheek, heavy and warm, and then to curl it against the side of his throat. The silent threat rang like a bell, and Crowley swallowed before reaching down for his skirts. He hauled the rustling fabric up bit by bit until it was gathered around his waist. Given the drawers he wore, he doubted that Aziraphale could see much, even with the skirts and petticoats lifted out of the way, but the angel hummed softly with satisfaction.

“There, that's better. That's how I should like to keep you, dressed but... accessible.”

Crowley bit his lip as Azirpahale came closer, tugging aside the split in Crowley's drawers with a delicate touch before cupping the warm flesh underneath.

“Beast,” Crowley hissed half-heartedly and Aziraphale chuckled.

“Oh, likely. Aren't you meant to be running for the hills, my dear? I wasn't really ready for the irritation of having to set up shop all over again, and you had to be Mr Oh So Clever with poison in my tea.”

“Be less predictable in where and what you drink angel, and- oh!”

Fingers that had only been resting gently over his mons suddenly became a great deal more invasive, slipping down to investigate his entrance before sliding up again to circle his clit. He spread his legs wider, taking a firmer grasp on his skirts.

“You must have known I was coming back,”Aziraphale murmured, sliding his fingers down between Crowley's legs with increasing pressure. “You must have known that I would be angry when I did.”

“Doesn't feel angry to me,” Crowley started, and then he yelped as Aziraphale pressed two fingers inside him, too hard, too fast, momentarily stunning Crowley out of words. It stung and ached, but he could feel himself responding, both to Aziraphale's touch and to the threat rising from the angel like fog from the harbor.

“Does it not?” asked Aziraphale politely.”I haven't made up my mind yet. Things have been quiet for a while. It's been thirty years since last we played. What changed?”

As he spoke, he thrust his fingers heavily into Crowley's cunt, his knuckles hard against the soft flesh, the full strength of his arm behind it. Crowley couldn't have closed his legs if he wanted to; all he could do was clutch at his skirts and listen to the humiliating sound of himself growing wet.

“Ah... Aziraphale, just let me-”

“No, clever boy. Speak.”

Crowley whined as Aziraphale fucked him mercilessly with his fingers, adding another as Crowley winced.

“Well, the prevailing attitudes in Hell, and ah... fuck, the increasing industrialization of the age...”

“Liar. No. Try again.”

Crowley was going to, but then Aziraphale slowed his motions. He whimpered as Aziraphale set a steady rhythm, every thrust as deep as it could go, and when he pulled back, he passed the ball of his thumb firmly over Crowley's clit. The pleasure sent tremors down Crowley's legs, he was running down his thighs to stain his very lovely drawers, and it was only through an act of sheer will that he answered.

“You left...”

“I haven't. I've been right here in London for twenty-five years.”

“No, you left _me_ -”

“What are you talking about?”

“In Thessaloniki! You left me in Thessaloniki!”

Aziraphale stilled, giving Crowley a moment to pull himself back from the brink. He was trembling, his hair falling out of its tidy chignon to drag limply against his face, and he knew it wasn't just arousal that pinked his cheeks.

“Thessaloniki?” Aziraphale blinked. “Why, that was before I set up the shop...”

“It was,” Crowley said, looking away. “You left me. I thought we were still- I _waited,_ angel.”

“How long?”

“Not going to tell you,” Crowley retorted, but then he groaned, dropping his forehead against Aziraphale's shoulder as Aziraphale started stroking him again, this time a little more gently. He didn't mind it either way. He never would have believed that an angel could be gentle with him. He never would have believed that an angel could want him so much it made him rough.

“Tell me,” Aziraphale insisted, and he kept at it, driving Crowley right to the edge of his endurance and drawing back, and he did it over and over again until Crowley finally gave up, gave in.

“Thirty years,” Crowley wailed. “All right, I waited for you thirty bloody years in Greece, and you never came!”

He caught a glimpse of Aziraphale's face, honestly shocked, and then he threw back his head and shouted as Aziraphale gave him the release he had been denying him. He could hear cloth rending as he tore his skirts to bits, and then he let go of them entirely to cling to Aziraphale, shaking so hard that he was aware of nothing but the pleasure of it, how good it was to come in his angel's hand and be pressed up against his body, and he was still shaking when he realized how wet his arm was, and how red.

Crowley flinched back in shock only to discover that his body wasn't just slow and heavy from the orgasm. He reached up with his bloody hand to the slit in the side of his throat, right under his jaw and so deep that his fingers pressed in an inch or more before he jerked them back, looking up to see Aziraphale tucking a small push dagger into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Angel-” he managed, but he couldn't quite word out, couldn't utter anything more than a whistling wheeze before tumbling into Aziraphale's arms

“Poor darling,” Aziraphale said softly, catching him neatly. “I had no idea. I was called up to Heaven for- well, it doesn't matter, and I simply didn't think...Oh, how cruel. I am so very sorry.”   
Supporting Crowley with one arm, he tipped the coffin lid back with the other. As Crowley was registering the fact that the coffin was quite empty, Aziraphale caught him up in a bridal carry to lie him down inside. He had the fleeting vexed thought that his complexion wouldn't do half so well with the blue velvet as Aziraphale's.

“What... ”

“Oh, I took care of that when I walked in,” said Aziraphale, waving away the disposal of his previous corporation easily. “I knew that if I had my way, you'd be ending the night here.”

Crowley, his body getting colder and his own blood feeling downright clammy as it soaked into his dress, managed a slight smile.

“You were thinking of me.” Being laid flat with his throat straightened helped a little. He regained some of his voice even if it cost him breath he wouldn't get back.

“For thirty years,” Aziraphale said tenderly. He reached down with a clean hand to brush Crowley's hair back from his face. When he drew it back, it was stained red. “I'm so sorry, my own. I did not realize that you were waiting for me. Or even that you would wait at all.”

Crowley scoffed, or tried to. He felt too heavy, too slow. His throat ached, but Aziraphale's knife must have been beyond sharp. There really was very little pain; he was just dying.

 _Of course I would,_ he tried to say, but all the breath was leaving him along with all the blood, and it was all he could do to hold Aziraphale's hand tightly as the angel bent down to kiss him.

 _You're going to get your nice suit all filthy,_ Crowley wanted to say, but maybe that was why the angel had worn black.

 _I missed you so,_ he needed to say, but he couldn't. Probably for the best, really.

“Stay,” he managed, and Aziraphale smiled, kissing him over and over again.

“Until you're done,” Aziraphale promised. “I would never leave you in the dark alone.”

Crowley wanted to laugh at that, because what a silly thing for an angel to say to a demon, for the blessed to say to the fallen. Instead all that came out was a pained breath, and one fainter yet, and finally none came at all, and Aziraphale dropped one final kiss on Crowley's mouth before picking up the coffin's lid and closing him in.

He flicked the blood off his fingers idly as somewhere in the house, the clock struck one. With a snap, he miracled away the mess that had soaked into the carpet and his suit, cleaning the hand prints on the coffin before sealing it again.

Aziraphale nodded at a job well done, resisted the urge to open the coffin for one last look, and picked up the paper. He wanted to make sure that he had the right time for the funeral tomorrow, because it would certainly not do to be late, and then he paused, looking over the obituary with something he was not permitted to call affection.

Alphonse Zebulon Fell, London Bookseller and Man of Letters, Lover and Beloved.

 _Really, Crowley,_ he thought, but he passed his fingertips over the letters again and again until they were black with cheap ink, until the words were lifted from the paper and stained into his skin.


End file.
